


let's do the time warp (again)

by SerpentineJ



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Animated Universe, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, LITERALLY, M/M, written from the comic characters but you could read it as cinematic or animated u if you wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6737947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superman and Batman get thrown into an alternate dimension where Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are goin' steady. Publicly.</p><p>Or: a "we have to pretend to be dating (so as not to arouse suspicion, of course) while we figure out how to escape this universe" fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. act i: "it could be worse..."

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: superbat has ruined my life?

Bruce wakes up in Wayne Manor.

His ribs don't hurt. His clavicle isn't broken. His knuckles are barely bruised, which is disturbing, because last he remembers, he was beating the everloving shit out of a mecha-monster with kryptonite in its fists in downtown Metropolis with Superman, not lying in his bedroom.

Clark.

Bruce sits up. There are no wounds on his abdomen, only a yellowing bruise on his leg and a patch of pink skin on his shoulder, which had to have been healing for a week at least, nothing like the fights he remembers having gotten into on their inter-dimensional universe-jumping field trip-

Clark.

Goddamnit.

"Clark." He tries. He doesn't know what he's expecting, but there's a bang, and a thump, and Kent stumbles in through the door a minute later in a thin sky blue cotton shirt and a pair of gray boxers, and Bruce would avert his eyes but he's seen it all already- they've been near-naked together more times than he can count, stitching up gashes, helping the other strap heavy-duty gauze around their abdomen, fishing kryptonite out of bleeding wounds. It's not weird.

It's not cute, either. Bruce stamps down on anything that happened to be fluttering in the vicinity of his chest. Clark could probably hear it. The bastard likes to snoop.

"Bruce." Kent says, scrubbing his hands over his face. "What happened."

"We must have jumped again." Wayne murmurs, sitting up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. It's time to get up. "I'm surprised we haven't gotten attacked yet." His breath hitches, and he sneezes. There's a light silver powder on his shoulders.

"There doesn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary about this universe." Clark says, looking around, then down at his own hands. "Heat vision. X-ray. Strength." He hovers for a moment, then looks back at Bruce. "Flight." 

Bruce looks closer- the silver dust is powdered over Clark's hands, too. He frowns. "And I think I'm still Batman, from the looks of me." His body is still littered with scars. Bite marks, jagged gouges, burn puckers- looks like the skin of a vigilante. "Seems pretty normal."

Kent pauses. Bruce looks up at him.

"What is it?" He says. "And get down from there, I'm getting a crick in my neck."

"I didn't fly here, Bruce." Clark replies. "I was sleeping on your couch." He glances around. "There's some of my things around here, too..." He's right- there's a shirt draped over a nearby chair that's far too non-designer to be owned by Bruce Wayne.

Bruce drags a hand through his hair. "Huh." He starts. "Your place burn down or something?"

Kent looks disturbed. It's not a good look on him. His face scrunches up, and his eyebrows furrow togther like lines of magnetic dust, drawn closer by an invisible force. 

"Maybe." He says, slowly. "We should stay in this universe for now, as not as no-one's trying to kill us. Maybe we can figure out how to break this universe-jumping loop and get back to our own world."

"Yeah." Bruce stands up. "I'm going to the Batcave."

Clark follows him. Bruce wonders where his uniform is. Without it, or his glasses, he's not Superman, the hero Kryptonian with the spandex suit, or Mr. Kent, investigative journalist from the Daily Planet- he's just Clark, warm and a little scruffy, hair barely mussed, barefoot in Bruce's house.

Bruce is shaken out of his musings by a bark.

"Krypto!" 

The dog automatically rushes Kent, basically running into his legs, yapping excitedly- the cape looks ridiculous as ever, and Bruce sometimes wonders if Clark does his own Superman laundry. Does he feel ridiculous, washing a cape for a dog?

Probably not. Clark's weird like that.

"What's the dog doing in my house?" He eyes it distastefully- it's getting slobber all over the floor. "What happened to your Fortress?"

"And I thought you were just beginning to get along with Krypto." Alfred says from the doorway. "Master Bruce."

"Hi, Alfred." Clark is kneeling on the floor now, scratching his dog behind the ears, and he looks up to smile at the butler. Bruce remembers how the idea of a butler had unsettled Clark at first- growing up in Kansas, and all that. Alfred's more than a butler. He's family. Kent understands that now. "Have you been looking after Krypto?"

"Trying to." Alfred sniffs. "If he would hold still long enough for me to get that mud off him."

"Damnit, Clark, your mutt is getting dirt all over my house." Bruce exclaims, seeing the dark tracks that trail from the front door to the panting, tail-wagging mop of fur right in front of him. He scowls at it. Krypto grins back, tongue hanging out. "At least tell him to hover, or something. Spare Alfred the work."

"It's no trouble, Master Clark." Alfred shoos the dog in the general direction of the mudroom. "The floors are due to be waxed soon anyways."

Bruce rolls his eyes. Clark smiles, that heavy weight that comes with being Superman seeming to lighten for a moment, before it returns to settle in his eyes and he's standing up again, brushing off his knees, straightening his shoulders.

"We should go." He says. "We need to... work."

"Right." Bruce affirms, glancing at Alfred. "Alfred, we'll be in the Batcave."

"Of course, sir." 

Clark sees Bruce give Krypto a fond scratch on the head as he walks by. Bruce will deny doing it if he asks, he knows. It makes the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.

Bruce nods at his butler. It feels strange, talking to this universe's Alfred as though he is the one Bruce knows. There's a disconnect. Maybe it has something to do with the strangely... knowing? look

Alfred shoots him, coupled with a small smile, as he disappears down the hall. 

What was that about?

He shrugs it off.

~~~~~~

Bruce one of the most comprehensive news-tracking systems on the planet.

It's not unusual: he likes to keep tab s on the rest of the Justice League- both their superhero handles and their plainclothes identities-, and monitor villainous activity across the globe, and Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, is expected to have at least a general idea of current events at any given time. As such, he has news feeds constantly active for whenever names like "Batman", "Bruce Wayne", "Clark Kent", and "Superman" pop up in the news.

He wakes the computer, screen flickering on, filling the Cave with an artificial glow, and pulls up the news, as he has most days for the past ten years.

"Clark Kent Getting Serious With Boyfriend Billionaire Bruce Wayne?"

"Kent And Wayne Going Steady"

"Sorry, Ladies- Bruce Wayne Might Be Taken"

Bruce feels his eyes widen.

"Clark." He says. His voice is much steadier than he would have expected. "You're going to want to see this."

~~~~~~

"Bruce?" Clark trots down the stirs about ten minutes later, fully dressed. He must have changed his clothes. "What's the problem?"

"I think I figured out what's different about this universe." Bruce says. He doesn't look directly at Clark, but gestures at the screen, news headlines bold and glaring, and watches the other man's reaction out of the corner of his eye. One of the benefits of being a detective and a paranoid bastard- peripheral vision is so instrumental, so one learns to utilize it. 

Clark doesn't... really react, or at least, not to the magnitude Bruce would have expected. He raises his eyebrows, scratches the back of his head, eyes skimming snippets of the news articles in front of him.

_"Are things getting serious between billionaire and infamous bachelor Bruce Wayne and rumored new squeeze Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent? The two were seen sticking closely together during the Aire Gotham charity ball a week ago..."_

_"Clark Kent moves his things into Wayne Manor! The reporter was spotted unloading two modest suitcases on the front steps of the Wayne mansion earlier today, despite the man's remaining situated in his Metropolis apartment. The Wayne family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, declined comment..."_

_"Wayne/Kent Date Night: The duo who have sent the tabloid world into a rumor-frenzy were spotted on the Metropolis Pier last night. Billionaire and businessman Bruce Wayne was photographed briefly hand-in-hand with Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent. Both men appeared to be enjoying ice cream and the sunset, the vision of a picturesque couple..."_

_"Are Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent meant-to-be? The elusive couple, who have been publicly dating for nearly three months, seem to be as close as ever. The duo, who met in Metropolis when Kent was sent to cover one of Wayne's business trips to the city..."_

_"Is Bruce Wayne gay? LGBQ+ communities have expressed their support of the businessman's decision to go public about his relationship with reporter Clark Kent. When reached for comment, Selina Kyle, Wayne's former romantic partner, said, "Brucie's definitely not completely gay- he had no trouble with the ladies-" she winked, "-but he's definitely not straight, either..."_

Clark makes a small, noncommittal noise. Bruce consciously controls his heart rate, because the bastard can definitely hear it, and he's not going to give away just how much this may or may not have rattled him.

"Huh." Clark says. "Well, my stuff being here makes a lot more sense now."

~~~~~~

Bruce peers through his- well, this universe him's- microscope at a sample of the silver dust he had scraped off of his own skin.

"It could be worse." Clark says from behind him, still looking at the screen, morbidly fascinated with the details of this-universe-Clark-and-Bruce's relationship. "The world could be ending."

Bruce grunts. He adjusts the focus on the microscope by a fraction.

Kent looks up- he hears the steps descending into the Cave before Bruce does, and stiffens for a moment before relaxing. It's just Alfred.

"Master Bruce." The butler says. "Don't forget you have the LiveTention charity banquet tonight."

"Uh." Bruce says, caught off guard. "Right. Of course. When do we leave?"

Alfred smiles. "Eight precisely." He looks at Clark. "Master Clark, will you need your suit pressed?"

Clark freezes for a second. "Ah- yeah, Alfred, thanks. That would be great."

"Of course." Alfred says. "Bruce."

Bruce looks at his butler.

"I hope you find your way back to your own universe by next week." He says, a knowing look in his eyes. "Master Bruce has been looking forward to visiting the Kents next week for quite some time, it would be a shame if he missed it."

He leaves, shoes tapping quietly against the stone floor. Clark and Bruce stare after him.

"He knows you, huh." Clark says.

Bruce shakes his head. "Yeah."


	2. act ii: "put on your game face, kent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: okay! thank you guys so much for all your great comments- i'm almost done writing this story, so i'll probably post chapters three and four during next week, instead of studying for aps. :D

Bruce is straightening the bowtie on his tux when Clark walks into his bedroom. He doesn't knock. What an asshole.  
  
"How are we gonna do this?" Clark asks, scratching the back of his head. He looks good. Of course he looks good, anyone looks good in a well-fitted tux, and Clark is anyone but 'anyone'- he's Superman. Bruce doesn't stare, keeps his eyes fixed on his reflection in the full-length mirror, giving his bowtie just enough of an asymmetrical look to be casually just-less-than-perfectly polished.

"Your tie's crooked." Clark says. He moves closer, starts to try to adjust it. Bruce bats his hands away.

"Exactly." He replies. "Bruce Wayne likes to look like the embodiment of 'fashionably late'."

Kent raises an eyebrow. His 'that's ridiculous' goes unsaid, but implied.

"Okay." Bruce says after a moment. "I would have cancelled, claimed sick or something, but this is one of the biggest charity events on the year and one that I've been attending since I was seventeen, and I don't want to be responsible for causing a scandal in an alternate universe- don't talk, let's try and do as little damage as possible. We go, smile, drink, and leave."

"Shame." Clark chuckles. "I could get used to the billionaire life."

"Don't." Bruce advises. He does up his cufflinks with a smooth, practiced notion, looking for all the world like he'd been doing it since he was twelve. (He probably has.)

Clark smiles. Bruce's cufflinks are the same color as his eyes.

~~~~~~

A change overtakes Bruce as they're in the car to the event.

It's subtle at first- a relaxed straightening of the shoulders, one leg crossed lazily over the other, the perpetual frown that so often creases his forehead begins to smooth, being replaced by a heavy, cocky set- he's not Bruce right now, he's Mister Wayne, playboy billionaire, and Clark suddenly feels ill-prepared by comparison. Bruce has been doing this his whole life.

The door clicks open. They step out.

The front steps aren't exactly swarming with paparazzi, like they would be at a red carpet premiere or a political affair, but there are a substantial amount of journalists there. Flash bulbs begin to go off five feet from their faces. They make their way up the steps, Bruce grinning at the occasional reporter, and it's all Clark can do to follow in his wake, resisting the urge to shove his hands in his pants pockets. He can save hundreds of people and give exclusive interviews in a spandex suit as Superman, but Clark Kent is unfamiliar with the limelight. He thanks God for his glasses.

"Come on, Clark." Bruce's voice is... cheerful. Clark knows it's not genuine, that this is all a grandiose show that Bruce puts on whenever he goes out as Bruce Wayne, Wayne extends a hand, and it's almost scary that Clark can barely see any of his old friend in the glitzy, boisterous, charming character that stands before him.

Clark blinks. "Yeah." He takes Bruce's hand. 

Bruce pulls him closer and mutters in his ear, dropping the act for a moment.

"Put on your game face, Kent." His voice is low and full of intent. Ah, there's Bruce. "You look like a squirrel facing down a rabid mongoose."

"That's the weirdest analogy I've ever heard." Clark snarks back. This, he can do. He doesn't know what it is, but something about Clark Kent in front of all the cameras, in the spotlight, near Bruce Wayne- it makes him paranoid about his secret, about Superman. Clark Kent is supposed to be the normal one. This is not normal. (This is Bruce Wayne's wheelhouse.)

Bruce disguises their brief exchange as a kiss on the cheek- it surprises Clark, a brush of dry lips on his skin- and is moving on in a half a second, tugging Clark by the arm, immediately merging seamlessly into the warm crystal-lit ballroom.

"Mister Wayne." An older, shorter man in a three-piece suit approaches them. "So good to see you again."

"Good to see you too, Gerard." Bruce smiles easily, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and damn, he's good- aren't fake smiles only supposed to reach the mouth, not the eyes?- and claps him on the shoulder. "How's business?"

"Good, good..." The other man says, and they blend into a stream of chatter about the stock market this quarter, football, that new bill on trade regulations overseas, rumors of this merger, and oh, how are Helen and the kids? Such a shame that they couldn't come this year- Clark zones out, eyes wandering around the room, taking in the heartbeats of every person swirling around the glittering ballroom. There's a scent of something light and expensive-smelling coming from the silver trays balanced on the quiet hands of quiet help, which is stocked with flutes of champagne and plates of bites of rich-people-food, as Clark begins to think of it, and he follows whenever Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder or nudges him, making casual conversation with the well-dressed men and women who come their way, letting Wayne take charge. At one point, Bruce settles a hand around Clark's waist.

They excuse themselves from the slightly dry company of the third CFO they've talked to in the hour and break to stand close to one of the walls.

"Is this how you spend all your time?" Clark asks, grinning slightly. "When do you sleep?"

"Not often." Bruce deadpans. "We can leave in half an hour, I just need to give some obligatory face time so nobody gets too suspicious."

Kent raises an eyebrow. "You know this is a parallel universe, right?" He asks. "It's not technically YOUR reputation at stake."

Wayne doesn't reply, just shoots him a sardonic look and grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Clark.

"Here." He says. "Give me a second, I'm going to go talk shop with one of my competitors." Clark smiles. Bruce is going to go test just how much shit he can get away with giving this guy, now that it doesn't have any real consequences in their world.

He isn't alone for long. Another man, tall, in a nondescript black tux, quietly sidles up to him, holding a glass of champagne.

"Nice party." The stranger says conversationally. Clark turns to him, automatically assesses his heart and perspiration rates. Normal, steady. He smiles.

"Yeah." He replies. "I'm not used to being guests at these kinds of things, I'm usually one of the reporters on the front steps."

The other man grins back. "Clark Kent, right?" He extends a hand. "James Welsk."  
  
"Nice to meet you." Clark says, meeting his handshake, but with hackles raised slightly. "How do you know who I am?"

"A little hard not to." Welsk chuckles, shaking his hand. "You and your partner are all over the news. Hottest celebrity couple of the year, apparently."

Kent nods. "Ah. Right." 

"Irresponsible date, though." James continues slyly. "Leaving you to talk shop?"

Clark feels a little relieved, suspicions confirmed- this guy isn't a villain, he's just hitting on him. "Finance isn't really my cup of tea." He replies, keeping his tone carefully neutral. He hopes he isn't leading James on, but it's not that much a shame if he is. In this universe, Clark Kent is spoken for. Welsk should be expecting rejection.

"Hmm. Mine, either." The other man responds. "I'm much more interested in the... artistic side of the business."

"I seem to be at a disadvantage." Clark parries. "What did you say you did, again?"

Welsk smiles. There's something shark-like in it, this time, mostly masked by his charisma- Clark can only see it because he's spent his whole life dealing with evil. This isn't 'homicidal maniac' level evil, just greed and gluttony. Welsk is a predator, not a criminal. 

"Oh,:" he says, "this and that."

"I'm sorry I took so long." A deep voice. Clark would recognize it anywhere. Bruce had approached them silently, and now stands next to Clark, facing Welsk. "I see you've met James."

"Bruce!" Welsk says jovially, grin still broadening his face. There's clear tension between him and Wayne. "Always good to see you- how's the business?"

"Wayne Enterprises is doing well, Welsk, thank you." Wayne replies, voice slightly clipped in a way Clark can only hear because he can feel the vibrations of the other man's vocal chords in his throat. "And you?"  
  
James laughs. "I always make a comeback, Wayne." He glances warmly at Clark. Bruce stiffens infinitesimally. Kent almost rolls his eyes, until he feels Bruce slide a hand around his waist, anchoring him to his side.

Jesus Christ.

"Well." Wayne says. "Nice catching up with you, James."

"Of course, and vice-versa." Welsk slaps him on the shoulder, Bruce's borderline-glare not wavering in the face of physical contact, and extends a hand to Clark. "Wonderful meeting you, Mister Kent." 

There's a little too much heat in his gaze for it to be innocent. Clark accepts the handshake. James's hand is big and warm and dry, and it goes on slightly longer than strictly necessary, to the point where Bruce tightens his grasp on his hip. It doesn't hurt- nothing but kryptonite ever does- but the pressure feels somehow... possessive.

It's an act, Clark reminds himself. Bruce is a brilliant actor. No need to get his hopes up.

Welsk leaves.

"Let's go." Bruce mutters. He relaxes his arm, so his fingers on Clark's waist are more of a guiding force than a commanding one, shifts his hand so it's on Kent's elbow instead of around his hip, but he doesn't relinquish the contact until they're in the backseat of the car Alfred had driven them here in. Then, when they're safely behind the tinted windows of the slick black automobile (and is everything Bruce owns black? Even the things he has as 'Bruce Wayne'?) he drops his hand as though he's been burned. Clark finds himself missing it. He quashes the instinct.

"Where to, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks, glancing at them in the rearview mirror.

"Home, Alfred." Bruce grunts.

There's silence as they peel out of the drive and into the road.

"So." Clark breaks the quiet. "Welsk, huh?"

There are a hundred implied questions in those three words- 'who is he', 'what does he do', 'why do you hate him'- but he doesn't have to ask any of them. Bruce knows.

"Welsk is a shark." Wayne replies shortly. "He buys struggling, desperate companies, strips them down, then sells them for profit."

"Real charmer." Clark chuckles.

"His father was the same way." Bruce growls. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and all that. Welsk Senior tried to buy Wayne Enterprises after my parents died. Told Alfred I was too young, too irresponsible, and that he should cash in now and put it in a bank account for me later, instead of letting the company crash and burn."

Clark looks at him.

They go the rest of the ride in silence.

~~~~~~

Bruce lies awake in bed that night.

_Goddamnit._

He thought he could keep this under control. He thought he could handle this.

Well, tonight was a crystal fucking example of him not handling it.

He remembers the press of Clark's waist under his fingertips, even through three layers of clothing- his hand twitches just thinking about it, and he tries desperately not to let his mind drift too far.

_Where's that goddamn self control, Bruce._

It seems to disappear when Clark's involved. (He doesn't think about why.)

Bruce tries shutting his eyes, but his traitorous brain throws images onto the projection screen behind his eyelids- Clark and Welsk, Clark and Krypto, the photos of this universe's Clark and Bruce, arm in arm, happy. Clark's face. Clark's hands. Clark's smile. Clark, Clark, Clark.

Jesus Christ. He's losing control.

He rolls over and resolutely refuses to think about anything, forcing himself to shut his brain down for the night, and ignores the ache in his chest.

~~~~~~

Clark lies awake in his bed that night.

The issue with Bruce is that he's so damn difficult to read. He's blunt at best and downright antagonizing at worst, and he's always acting, always putting on masks, literal or figurative- as one of his closest friends, Clark can barely discern anything about Bruce's emotional state but the things Bruce chooses to show him.  
  
He listens for the other man's heartbeat. It's a little faster than normal, but otherwise steady, a reassuringly regular series of thumps that Clark unconsciously matches, with his blood and with his breath.

He hears Bruce sigh and roll over.

Clark stares at the ceiling. Thank goodness Batman can't hear his heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: i do own james welsk! actually, i made him up for the purpose of this story, haha.
> 
> (do i have a writing style? sometimes it just feels like i'm talking at my laptop lmao)


	3. act iii: "why do you keep doing that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: thank for the comments, you guys! (i've got that song stuck in my head- you know, the one that goes 'oh, baby you- you've got what i need- but you say he's just a friend, oh, you say he's just a friend-')

"How's it coming?" Clark asks. He knows Bruce heard his footsteps coming down the stairs into the Batcave. Bruce is working on the universe-jumper that will- hopefully- allow them to return to their own reality. "Did you sleep?"  
  
(Part of Clark, honestly, wouldn't mind staying in this universe for a little while, though he ignores the idea that it has anything to do with Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent's involvement.) 

Bruce grunts noncommittally. He's in his batsuit, which means he must have gone out on the Gotham streets, and he can't have slept more than a couple hours, but he's staring at the screen, hitting buttons that Clark doesn't know how to manage, eyes darting from point to point. 

"I should be close to done with this in a couple of days." Bruce mutters.

Kent glances at the screen before returning his gaze to his friend. "And it'll be stable?"

"Hopefully." Bruce says. "I'm more worried about if the other Batman and Superman are in our world, and if so, what they're doing to it."

"What, scarring Flash for life by kissing in front of him?" Clark snorts.

"Well, I was thinking more along the lines of mass destruction." Wayne trails off. "But sure."

Clark scratches the back of his head. "O-kay." He says. "I'll... go fly around as Superman, I guess. Save a kitten, or something."

"Go ahead." Bruce replies, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Alfred probably has breakfast if you haven't eaten." He pauses. "If you need to eat."

Clark shrugs. "I could eat." He says.

~~~~~~

Alfred makes Clark's favorite, as though it's natural for him to stay the night and eat breakfast in the mornings.

Clark swallows his eggs, along with the lump in his throat.

~~~~~~

They only have to go out once more before Bruce is finished with the universe-jumper, according to Alfred- a dinner date, which he had tipped the press off about. Apparently, Bruce believes in proactively controlling his public image. Clark isn't surprised.

"Okay," he says, "dinner. We can do that."

Bruce looks at him incredulously. His heart rate is still steady, but there's a strange jitter in the muscle of his left middle finger. 

"You want to continue this... charade?" He asks. Clark holds his gaze and shrugs.

"We don't want to stir up the rumor mill." He explains, trying as hard as he can to keep his voice levelly nonchalant even though he can feel his own heart rate speeding up. "Plus, you said do as little damage to this universe as possible, right?" He's bullshitting. Bruce can probably tell. Shit.

Bruce stares at him, then shakes his head. 

"Alright." He says. "Alfred, where and when is the reservation?"

Alfred raises an eyebrow. He seems to be fighting to keep a smile off his face. 

"Eight-fifteen, at Gino's." He says.

Clark raises his eyebrows. 

"Nice restaurant." He comments, mostly succeeding in keeping the mixture of surprise and amusement from bleeding into his voice. Apparently he doesn't completely eradicate it, because Bruce scowls at him. 

_Hah._

~~~~~~

"You know the guy at the table next to us is taking photos with his phone." 

Bruce is sitting stiffly in his chair across from Clark.

"Yeah." He grits out. "I know." (His desire to perform a violent act goes unsaid.)

Clark toys with his fork. 

"Why are we doing this?" Bruce asks. He radiates tenseness. "It doesn't make any sense, plot-wise."

"Did you just refer to what's happening right now as a 'plot'?" Clark snorts. "What are you, a criminal mastermind? Or an author?"

"Both, if you believe some of the things my competition says." Bruce grumbles.

Clark sighs. "I wish this were the plot of a book," He says. "Then maybe the answers would be clearer."

"The transporter should only take a couple more days." Bruce murmurs. "Then we'll get back to our own universe." He sounds like he's convincing himself as much as he's convincing Clark.  
  
~~~~~~~~

Dinner goes uneventfully from there- it gets much less awkward when Bruce begins to think of it as a dinner meeting instead of a date, because when he thinks of the words "date" and "Clark" in conjunction he can feel the blood rising to his face and vaguely registers his breath quickening by a fraction, which is unacceptable, because he is a grown goddamn man and he should be able to control this. (And Clark can hear his heartbeat.)

He offers Clark his hand when they get up from the table. For the sake of onlookers, of course. He doesn't grip the other man's fingers too hard, even though he'd probably barely be able to feel it.

There are paparazzi on the front steps.

"Mister Wayne!" One says, a black skirted suit and an impressively tall pair of pumps. "Based on projected timelines, you and Mister Kent are celebrating your three-month anniversary today- can you confirm?"

Clark sees Bruce shift easily from Bruce Wayne- Batman to Bruce Wayne-Billionaire in the blink of an eye.

"I can confirm." He says cockily, a charmingly lopsided smirk of a smile sliding fluidly onto his face. He squeezes Clark's hand in warning. Kent blinks- he doesn't have as much practice with this automatic-personality-switching as Bruce, because he's usually more focused on keeping his physical powers hidden- but smiles at the cameras, watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye. There's nothing about Batman-Bruce in Bruce Wayne. His eyes are bright and shallow, and his smile gleams easily, broadly, grandly. Everything about Bruce Wayne is easy and grand- his stride, the timbre of his voice, the set of his shoulders in his tailored suit that probably cost more than three months rent on Clark's apartment.

They don't stay long, just enough to satisfy the gossip-mongers for a week or two, answering a couple questions, looking suitably handsome, and Clark tunes out the chatter of the reporters and the people with cell cams pointed at them. This is Bruce's scene. 

Bruce slides an arm around his waist, insists "we must be going, there's a movie we were hoping to catch," and does it again- by it, he means Bruce kisses him on the cheek, so brief he nearly misses it, just the press of pleasantly dry lips against his skin, and they go to the car, cameras still flashing in their wake. 

"Why do you keep doing that?" Clark asks, turning to him, not anything but... curious, and maybe a little hopeful. No. He quashes anything like that before it has a chance to sprout.

Bruce shrugs, and Clark gets the feeling he wants to look away, but knows that if he does it'll be evident that he has something he wants to quiet.

"It's an act." He says. "All the world's a stage, Clark."

"Cliché." Clark chuckles. "You're not one for clichés."

Bruce's eyebrows twitch upwards for a moment. He turns to Alfred, who's in the front seat.

"The Pier, please, Alfred." He calls. Clark glances at him. Bruce looks out the window.

Alfred nods. 

"Of course, sir."

They don't talk for the rest of the ride. 

Clark is left with the muffled noise of the streets outside, the company of his own racing thoughts, the memory of a surprisingly soft brush of lips against his cheek, and the steady thud-thud of Bruce's heartbeat beside him.  
  
~~~~~~~~

Gotham is beautiful at night.

It's an unorthodox opinion, Clark knows, but he gazes out the window, and sees the character of an entire city scrawl past his gaze in a stretch like water- he skims his fingers through the essence of... Gotham, the smoky air, the flickering lights, kids on skateboards whizzing by, past their curfew, and thinks that it's a strange kind of beauty, but it's there. He loves Metropolis, loves the gleaming storefronts and the flow of the chatter of easy conversation, the burbling of that glimmering fountain in the middle of the warmly dark park, and it's sometimes infinitely preferable to the grime and soot and rough people in Bruce's city, but Gotham has a certain... character, a character that's hard to deny a dark curiosity to.

He doesn't particularly like Gotham. He thinks it's fascinating.

~~~~~~

Gotham is ugly at night.

Bruce narrows his eyes out the window.

He sees the dark. He sees the suffering. He hears the plaintive cry of a baby without a mother, feels the anger of a man recently let go due to a budget cut as well as his underlying terror at the prospect of not being able to care for his family. He tastes the blood of a young man with a split lip and a missing wallet. He sees the poverty, the discrimination, the despair.

Nighttime in Gotham brings out the worst of the criminals. The scum of the city.

It's much different from Clark's Metropolis.

Metropolis is warm and welcoming- it had thrown Bruce off for a moment, when he walked the streets of that city for the first time. A city where kids ran the street, playing, past sundown. A place where people left their bikes or shoes on the front porch with no worry of them being stolen. A place where women didn't hitch their purses up and walk quickly, nervously, through the park at night.

What an optimistic bunch.

In Gotham, Bruce thinks, you don't leave things out. You don't walk through the slums without a knife up your sleeve or a pistol in your holster. You don't leave the main streets past sundown.

He doesn't like Gotham. He's loyal to it.

~~~~~~

"What are we doing here?" Clark asks, getting out of the car. There's no judgement in his voice, only curiosity. 

The Pier isn't pretty. It's dark, scarcely lit by flickering lamps and the smog-dampened glow of the city, and rises out of the dark like a stack of toothpicks, rickety and ominous. Bruce steps on without hesitation.

"I like the pier." He says, not turning to look at Clark, eyes fixed on some point on the distant skyline. There's something oddly personal in the way he says it.

Clark cocks his head and follows him as he makes his way to the end of the pier, hands in his pockets. The air smells like metal and brine. When they reach the end, Bruce stops, to Clark's relief- it doesn't make sense, but he had the strangest gut feeling that Bruce would have liked to keep going, would have walked straight off the walk to disappear into the dark below.

"It's nice." Clark says, honestly. He glances at Bruce from the corner of his eye. His face is mostly hidden in shadow.

Bruce chuckles. "Don't lie." He replies. "It doesn't suit you."

"Not lying." Clark shrugs.

Bruce does look at him then. There's something on his face that Clark has never seen before- no, that's not right. He's seen it before. He's seen it when Bruce talks about his parents, as a brief flicker before a metal gate slams shut over his features, or when Bruce held Jason Todd's broken, bloodied body in his arms.

"Gotham's no Metropolis." He says. His tone is tired, but there's a gentle upturn to his lips. It's a stark contrast to the glimmering Bruce Wayne with the million-watt smile and the puffed chest Clark had been playing off only half an hour ago.

He gets the feeling Bruce comes here a lot.

"I think Gotham is interesting." Clark responds. It's quiet, aside from their voices and the wash of black water against the rotting wood of the pier. 

Bruce smiles- a real, genuine smile. Clark can tell it's genuine because of the edge of sadness to it. It seems like the most honest things Bruce does are the sad ones.

They stand there for a good twenty minutes, not talking, until Bruce turns and begins to walk back down the pier without a word.

Clark follows.

~~~~~~

Clark's thoughts are full of Bruce that night.

He doesn't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: a lil more angsty. idk if im pulling this 'introspective' stuff off? (also can u tell where i hit my 'i can't write anything over 4k words' ceiling and nearly broke the fourth wall)
> 
> i'll probably post the final chapter around wed. or thurs. :D


	4. act iiii: "you're sure this is safe?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: and the conclusion!

"It's almost done." Bruce says at breakfast the next morning. Clark has almost grown accustomed to the sight of him in a robe, drinking coffee at the breakfast table. (The constant availability of food in the house is, apparently, Alfred's professional, butler-ly way of forcing Bruce to eat more than three meals a week.) "The portal, I mean."  
  
Clark looks at him. 

"Ah." He replies, "Well. Good."

He's excited to get back to their own universe, he reminds himself. Ecstatic.

"I should have it functioning by later today." Bruce continues. 

"Will there be any... side effects?" Clark asks. Hey, it never hurts to ask when universe-jumping. He doesn't want to end up stuck in limbo for twenty years, or come out the other side aged 30 more.

Bruce looks at him.

"From the contraption?" He says. "There shouldn't be. I don't know how much we'll remember of this universe, because of the rules of space-time, or whatever this scenario involves, but we should be able to step through harmlessly."

"Good." Clark repeats. If he weren't able to control the tiniest vibrations of his vocal chords, his voice would have wavered. He's not even convincing himself that he's glad. Goddamnit.

Bruce is acting completely normally, as though he hadn't looked at Clark with a world of sadness in his eyes last night.

He stamps down on the urge to lay his hand on Bruce's shoulder, and grabs an apple instead.

~~~~~~

Clark feels something disturbingly similar to desperation building in his gut throughout the day.

He doesn't want to lose this, he realizes, this closeness with Bruce. They're best friends in their universe, even if Wayne denies it, and Clark had thought that would be enough, should be enough, but after- after tasting this most intimate relationship, this thing that he's just now really beginning to want, to need-

"Master Clark." Alfred appears in the doorway to the room Clark's in- some kind of library with the most fascinating books on everything from automobile repair to the history of the Latin language. (Several books are in Kryptonian, which Clark recognizes from his own collection in the Fortress of Solitude. He feels that... pang of emotion again.) "If I may."

"Of course, Alfred." Clark says. "What is it?"

"I had to remark," he continues, "on one thing." 

Alfred pauses for a moment. He seems to be finding the right words.

"You and your Bruce are not... as dissimilar to the ones of this universe as you might think." He finally says, His- honestly, unnecessarily cryptic- tone is belayed by the clarity of his opinion in his eyes.

Clark blinks.

"Uh." He says eloquently. "Oh."

Alfred raises his eyebrows and takes his leave.

~~~~~~

"It's ready." Bruce says, seven hours later.

Clark nods.

~~~~~~

"You're sure this is safe?" Clark asks, squinting into the electric-blue-green-yellow whirl that Bruce has materialized in the metal portal framework.

"Pretty sure." Bruce replies, stepping away from the control panel. They stand in front of the gateway. He starts to put his foot through, but Clark's hand on his arm stops him.

"Wait." Clark says. There's something jarringly exposed in his eyes. "Bruce."

Bruce frowns at him. "What?"

"You said we might not remember anything from this universe?" Clark asks, an edge to his voice that Bruce can't quite place.

"There's always a chance." Bruce answers, eyebrows furrowed. "Why?:

Clark kisses him.

Bruce's eyes widen, back stiff in shock- Clark is kissing him, Clark is kissing him- but before he can respond, can do more than freeze and, after a moment, clutch at Clark's upper arms in surprise- Clark pulls away, lips red, flushed, eyes bright.

"I wanted to do that once." He pants. "Just once."

Bruce's grip slackens. "Clark-"

He doesn't get to finish, because Clark pulls him through the portal.

~~~~~~

Bruce falls to the floor of the Batcave.

He shifts, flips onto his back, and looks up.

Bats. Tech. Computers.

Looks like his Batcave.

Beside him, Clark groans- apparently he's gotten the wind knocked out of him. He sits up.

Bruce does the same.

Clark frowns, as though he has a headache, then blinks and looks, slightly wary, at Bruce.

"...how much do you remember?" He asks.

Bruce shifts, leaning on one hand, and the other hand shoots out to press at the back of Clark's neck when he presses his lips to the other man's.

This time, it's Clark's turn to be shocked.

"Enough." Bruce mumbles against Clark's mouth, uncharacteristically emotional, messy. "Everything."

Clark kisses him back. 

They fall back to the floor, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: is this the longest continuous thing i've ever written? goddamn. 
> 
> thank you guys so much for sticking with me! 
> 
> a sneak summary of the next superbat fic that i actually started halfway through writing this one? aight... coffee shop au, except realistic. like, /r/talesfromretail realistic. feat. a fresh-out-of-college trio, including assistant researcher bruce, unemployed clark with a journalism major, and roller derby star diana running a coffee shop/bakery together. guest starring: tim, conner, kara, dick, and a bunch of others who i haven't decided on yet.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: thanks so much for reading!. [i'm on tumblr.](http://serpentinej.tumblr.com)


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